Four-Letter Defect
by benaddictedtosherlock
Summary: Sherlock Holmes had never been one to embrace the concept of caring for another human being. All it does is bring about unneeded complications and these messy things called 'feelings'. Yet, when he crosses paths with an invalidated army doctor named John Watson his entire way of thinking is forced to be changed. Will this change be for better or for worse?
1. It Started With A Smile

Hello there! Just a quick note: if you're planning on reading this, I suggest you read A Study in Love first, as these one shots might not make much sense if you haven't already read it. This first one is an exception though, as it takes place before the start of that story.

As promised, this will consist of several one-shots written from Sherlock's POV of chapters/events from ASiL. Hope you'll like them!

* * *

It started with a smile.

A slight upward tug at the corner of Sherlock's lips as he sat across from John in the lounge, the two of them relaxing in their respective armchairs after a long, hard day's work of crime fighting and deducing. John had cracked some joke about burglary and despite the fact that Sherlock barely found John's attempt at humour to be comical, the smile was on his lips before what John had said registered in his mind as slightly funny.

Even more surprising than the smile on his face was that after only a few hours Sherlock had forgotten the joke, but not the strange feeling of warmth he felt in his chest when he realized he was smiling.

It grew with a look.

A brief meeting of the eyes as Sherlock and John walked through the aisles at Tesco, shopping for something to eat for dinner that night. An hour earlier John had expressed his desire for a home cooked meal rather than Chinese takeaway and without thinking Sherlock had offered to provide him with one. Now, he was walking at John's side through the grocery section with his eyes fixed on the shelves and the foods they held, pointedly ignoring the strange looks John occasionally sent his way.

"Um, Sherlock?" he heard John ask as he studied the back of a box of rice. He made a quite humming sound to indicate that John had captured his attention. "Why are you doing this?"

"Doing what?" Sherlock asked, though he knew exactly what John was getting at.

"Making dinner."

"Because you said you wanted to eat a meal that wasn't out of a box with chopsticks."

"Yeah, but…" he trailed off, and Sherlock glanced over at John. Their eyes met for a brief moment and it caused something in Sherlock's chest to tighten. He turned his attention onto a box of multigrain pasta as John spoke again.

"I suppose what I'm trying to say is…thank you." The gratitude in John's voice was evident, but even more so was the dryness in Sherlock's mouth as he mumbled an awkward 'You're welcome.'

It was solidified with a touch.

A gentle ghosting of John's fingertips across the pale skin of Sherlock's jaw while he checked his face for injury. Sherlock had been dealt a rather painful blow to the face as the result of a rather snarky remark made by Sherlock while interrogating a witness to a robbery at a bar. The man was large and had obvious anger issues, and was quite inebriated at the time, which is never a good combination. Still, Sherlock had been unable to resist commenting on the tattoo on the man's neck. Apparently, it was 'not good' to ask how low one's IQ must be to actually go through the process of getting a tattoo in such a vacuous place. His comment had ended up with Sherlock being laid out flat on his back, a sharp pain in his jaw.

Fortunately John had stepped in before the situation escalated and Sherlock was spared from further injury and humiliation. As Sherlock lay on the ground propping himself up on one elbow while John examined the cut on his jaw like a concerned parent, the quickening of his own heartbeat when John's hand came in contact with his face did not go unnoticed.

There may have been a crowd of people then, but when Sherlock thought back to that night, all he could remember was John and those fingers of his, lightly brushing over his skin, tilting his head so the light from the street lamp was shining on his face.

This worried Sherlock greatly. Never before had his memory failed him in such a way, and never before had the mere presence of one person managed to overpower all of his senses. It was confusing to say the least. Sherlock spent many a night lying awake in bed, his mind searching for some sort of solution to this newly-presented dilemma.

The answer came to him while in a half-asleep state one Thursday night when Sherlock once again found his mind overflowing with thoughts of John Watson, the army doctor with the golden hair and golden heart to match. The man who had limped into his life and shown him there was more to life than crime scenes and deductions. The man who said 'amazing' instead of 'piss off'. The man who had shown him that caring was not always a disadvantage when he shot that cabbie through two windows and saved his life.

Sure, Sherlock knew he cared for John, and it pained him greatly to admit it. However, he had no idea that what he felt for the man went farther than just enjoying his company. Not only did Sherlock crave John's companionship, but he found that he actually thrived during the moments they spent together. He smiled, even laughed, and whenever he was around John for some reason the world didn't seem so dismal.

Finally he had an explanation for the shallow breathing, the racing heart beat, and the strange dreams and thoughts that came to him at night after prolonged exposure to John. Sherlock Holmes was in love with his heterosexual flatmate and best friend. This infatuation may have begun with a smile, but it would no doubt end in heartbreak.


	2. Only A Dream

_The brisk wind blew harshly across Sherlock's face, stinging his eyes and causing them to water. His now blurred vision only further hindered his ability to see in the dimly lit alleyway. Nevertheless, he pressed on, John trailing behind at his coat tails, the two of them chasing after a world-renowned gangster, known primarily known for his work with drug trafficking._

_Sherlock's lungs were burning and his legs ached more and more with each step he took, but he pressed on. The thrill of the chase was more important than having the chance to rest his feet or catch his breath. Still, he found himself glancing over his shoulder occasionally to make sure John was okay. When he saw that he was beginning to look rather winded, he stopped running and began looking around, pretending to be searching for an alternate route while John leaned against a brick wall, panting like a dog after an intense game of fetch. After several seconds, because Sherlock couldn't possibly spare any more time, he nodded at John and began running again. The soft thudding of John's feet hitting the ground was a comforting sound to Sherlock, much like how the sound of a mother's heartbeat comforts a newborn. _

_They turned several corners before coming face-to-face with their culprit. Or rather, face-to-gun was more like it. Just as Sherlock noticed that the safety was off and the gun was cocked and ready to fire, he felt a strong force yank his arm, pulling him back around the corner. Less than half a second later there was the sound of gunfire and Sherlock saw several bullets fly by._

_John grabbed Sherlock's hand and pulled again, and the two of them began running the other way, John turning every few steps to fire his gun behind them, just in case the thug decided to chase after them. They sprinted for several minutes before John's pace slowed and he eventually came to a stop, leaning against a wall and bending his knees until his rear came in contact with the ground. Without hesitation, Sherlock sat down beside him and rested his head against the cool brick wall. Out of the corner of his eye he watched John, sitting there, breathing, living, and in that moment nothing else mattered except for the fact that John was there beside him and was so very close to him he could feel the heat radiating off of his body. It was a nice feeling._

_"We had him, you know," Sherlock heard himself saying after several moments of silence. A groan escaped from John's lips and surprisingly, it was not an unpleasant sound. _

_"He had a gun, Sherlock."_

_"So do you."_

_"He could've shot you!"_

_"But he _didn't_**.**__"_

_"Because I pulled you away from him." Sherlock didn't respond, but instead looked up at the black sky, and the extensive spread of the stars that it contained. He took a moment to catalogue the varying differences between the stars and other things that may be of importance at a later date._

_"Thank you," he said quietly, finally remembering where he was, and that thanks was indeed in order. He glanced down at John, who was smiling warmly at him, steel grey eyes twinkling just like the stars above them. He raised a hand and placed it on Sherlock's knee, patting it gently. _

_"You're welcome." Sherlock placed his hand on top of John's, and he saw how the doctor's eyes glanced down briefly before he met Sherlock's gaze, tongue darting out of his mouth and quickly brushing along his lower lip before he spoke._

_"You know," he said, "you look absolutely stunning in this moonlight." _

_Sherlock felt a smile threatening to break out on his face when he heard John speak these words. He managed to keep it mostly contained, at least enough to reply._

_"As do you, Doctor Watson."_

Sherlock sucked in a deep breath as his eyes fluttered open. The room was bright, the air around him was warm, and his pillow was breathing. He immediately closed his eyes again and tried to fall back to sleep before John woke up. He wasn't ready to get out of bed yet. More importantly, he wasn't ready to separated himself from John yet. Though he normally despised human contact of any kind, Sherlock had found that he was quite fond of this 'cuddling' thing. Of course, that was only with John. John was the exception to everything.

As he lay there in a half-awake state, the words John had said to him in his dream came rushing back to him. Oh, how he wished they had been real, that he had actually heard those words spoken by John's voice, that John actually held some sort of reciprocated feelings of endearment that Sherlock felt towards him, but alas, it had only been a dream.

Sherlock felt movement beneath him, and figured John was finally waking up. He felt John begin to pull away, but stop abruptly, just as he had begun to move the arm Sherlock was laying on. Sherlock held his breath and shut his eyes tighter, readying himself to feign sleep when John inevitably pulled his arm away and got out of bed, to prevent another awkward bout of throat clearing and avoiding eye contact at the two men having woken up together, and realizing they'd spent the night enveloped in each other's arms. Yet, for some reason, John made no attempt to remove himself from their shared bed, and for several minutes lay perfectly still, allowing Sherlock to 'sleep' on his shoulder.

As comfortable as Sherlock was with his head resting on John's collarbone, he knew their current position was no doubt uncomfortable for John, and if Sherlock didn't move soon John would begin to lose feeling in his left arm. After lying still long enough for one more inhale, Sherlock 'woke up' and rose to a sitting position. He allowed himself a glance in John's direction, and when their eyes met he coughed and looked away. All remnants of Sherlock's wonderful dream then faded into the back corners of his mind.

With a quiet sigh Sherlock pulled the covers from himself and stood. He turned away from John, somewhat embarrassed to have him see his bare torso, though he had been sleeping on him just moments ago. The fact that he was incredibly thin was not something he liked to show off. He would normally have been wearing a shirt, but it was much too hot in Fiji for him to sleep fully clothed without waking up covered in a disgusting amount of perspiration.

He walked over to his suitcase and began digging through it in search of a shirt to wear for the day, ignoring John's comment about putting on a shirt because why else would he be searching through his suitcase if not for some article of clothing?

"Hey, Sherlock," he heard John say. He turned around and saw John still sitting in bed, an odd sort of smile on his face. "Would you like to go down for breakfast or something?" Sherlock bit his tongue in order to keep from making some sort of snide remark and simply shook his head. Surely John knew that Sherlock wasn't big on breakfast, or any meal for that matter. Even if he was, he hadn't felt like eating much these past few weeks anyway. It was hard to think about eating with a lovesick stomach.

"No, that's fine." He said, turning back towards his suitcase and grabbing the first two shirts he saw. "You can go ahead. I'm going to take a shower." He held the two garments up in the air, rolling his eyes when he noticed he'd grabbed two shirts of almost the exact shade of blue.

"I can wait for you if you want." John's voice was closer now. He'd gotten off the bed and was now walking towards Sherlock it seemed. For some reason Sherlock felt himself tensing up slightly.

"That's quite alright John but I'm not very hungry." Sherlock turned and made to walk past John, but stopped when he felt a firm grip on his arm. He glanced down at where John's hand was holding, and possibly bruising his forearm with how tightly he was holding it. He met John's gaze, mentally preparing himself for any argument that may arise.

"That's what you said yesterday at supper." Sherlock rolled his eyes and tried to pull away, but John only tightened his grip. There would not doubt be some sort of injury resulting from this, Sherlock was sure of it. "And at lunch you barely touched your salad."

"Yes, but I ate," Sherlock offered, just wanting to be done with this conversation already. He felt his shoulders slump slightly when John rolled his eyes.

"Yeah, if you can call two forkfuls eating."

"Let go of me."

It was all Sherlock could say, so he said it with as much force as he could muster at the moment, which, luckily for him, was enough to make John release him. He placed his hand over the area where John's hand had been and his eyes traveled towards the bathroom door. He heard John saying something, an apology it sounded like, but he ignored it and went into the bathroom.

When he emerged John was nowhere to be found, which was for the best, he figured. He would have some time to himself while John ate breakfast. He sat on the bed he and John had been happily sleeping in not too long ago, and felt a mix of joy and sadness overwhelm him.

_It was only a dream. _He thought to himself, shoulders sagging and chin falling to meet his chest. He sighed and ran his hands through his hair, still a bit damp from his shower. Though John's actions and words weren't real, the feeling that lingered in Sherlock's chest was anything but fictitious. Being in love with John Watson was both an amazing thing and cripplingly painful when he knew the love would never be reciprocated. John claimed to be straight, and even if he wasn't, which Sherlock wasn't one hundred percent sure he was, Sherlock had successfully managed to trick him into thinking he was incapable of feeling anything close to love for another human being. Besides, it would never work between them. Sherlock was surprised he and John had managed to keep their friendship going for so long, considering how insufferable Sherlock could be, and was most of the time.

When John returned to the room, Sherlock acted as if nothing had happened, though he refused to speak to John, due to the fact that he could not trust his voice to not waver. He communicated through head shakes and nods, and the occasional sigh if John was being too bothersome, asking Sherlock meaningless questions and trying to initiate pointless small talk.

Sherlock ignored the way the entirety of his chest constricted when John placed a hand on his shoulder and asked him if he wanted to go for a walk on the beach. Though there were absolutely no romantic connotations in the way John had asked this question, Sherlock still felt an inkling of hope flare up inside of him, tricking his love-struck mind into thinking there may have been something there… something hidden behind that overly friendly smile.

Later, while Sherlock and John were walking side by side on the beach that feeling returned in full force, after John had made a comment on Sherlock's unusual attire. He fought hard to keep the emotionless mask on his face in spite of the intense feeling of warmth he felt in his heart, though after a while he gave up and allowed himself the pleasure of smiling as he strolled alongside John, their feet leaving mismatched footprints in the sand.

* * *

Quick little author's note here just to say that this will not be updated regularly, just when I am able to write a new part, and that this is not an independent story, but a companion piece to my other fanfic on here. I'm not even sure if anyone's reading this, but if you are, thanks.


	3. Lovesick

Sherlock Holmes was lovesick, and it wasn't the 'butterflies in the stomach' type illness most commonly associated with what an adolescent girl might call a "crush". His ailment was characterized by a gut-twisting pain, occasional light headedness and heart palpitations whenever he was in the company of a certain doctor.

Since their return from Fiji, Sherlock had been going through hell. He refused to take any cases for fear that his mind may wander to thoughts of John and cause him to lose focus while at a crime scene again. He didn't know if he'd ever get over the incident with the bank robbery and the crisps. He was almost afraid to show his face at Scotland Yard again.

Still, though Sherlock found that while his mind was constantly tormented during the day, at night he was able to find solace in his violin. Every night poured his heart out on the strings, using his bow to give a voice to his lament. Some nights he stood by the window and played, some nights he sat on the couch. Very rarely did he play while sitting in John's seat, partially because he didn't want John to come downstairs and see him when he was searching for a late night snack, but also due to the fact that the lingering scent of tea mixed with John's cologne coupled with the song he was playing often lulled him to sleep. Usually he woke shortly after falling asleep though and was able to abscond himself in his room before John came downstairs.

However, one morning Sherlock woke up to the sound of something shattering, followed by a series of expletives coming from the mouth of John Watson. He stood and walked into the kitchen, staring down at the broken tea cup on the floor, then up at John, whose face was slightly redder than usual. His face was tired; He hadn't slept well the previous night. His eyes looked guilty; He felt bad for having woken Sherlock up.

Sherlock realized he was holding his violin, but not the bow. He turned and went back to the sitting room in search of it. He found it lying on the floor beside John's armchair. He picked it up and began playing a simple tune while John cleaned up in the kitchen. After a while John came in with a new cup of tea in his hand. Sherlock decided to finish the song for John, because he knew he enjoyed the violin and he wanted to show him that he had no hard feelings towards him for waking him up.

Sherlock's phone rang when John stood and went to wash out his cup. He answered it without looking, something he regretted as soon as he heard the voice on the other line.

"Have you heard about the Allston case?" Sherlock sighed and rolled his eyes. Mycroft was referring to an old kidnapping case he'd assisted Lestrade with several years ago/prior, that was now being brought back into the spotlight following the discovery of the victim's body in a shady motel room. Nineteen year old Carrie Allston had long been found and returned to her family, and for the past few years had been living a normal and peaceful life until she apparently committed suicide three days ago. He'd gotten an e-mail from Lestrade about it but had yet to open it.

"Not interested," he muttered, placing his violin into its case and putting the bow beside it.

"Well, what if-"

"No." Sherlock ended the call and walked into the kitchen where John was leaning against the counter. He stood beside him, and John shifted slightly before smiling up at him. Not fully understanding why John was smiling at him but appreciating it anyway, Sherlock attempted to smile back. He saw John's gaze shift downward repeatedly and he became slightly uncomfortable. Was there something wrong with his lip, or was there some other reason for John's current fixation with his mouth? Their eyes met and Sherlock was reminded of the last time they'd been this close. Though the memory was slightly fuzzied due to the alcohol he'd consumed then, he could still remember the racing of his heart and the clamminess of his palms when the thought of kissing John had crossed his mind.

Of course, thinking about thinking about kissing John was enough to elicit the same response now, unfortunately. Sherlock tried to keep a straight face as he stared at John and he managed to maintain his cool, but then John began to lean in, and Sherlock was sure he went into shock. His entire body went numb, and he wasn't even aware of his phone falling from his grasp until it clattered on the floor. Sherlock reached down and immediately began inspecting the device for any scratches, almost forgetting the fact that his lips had been a centimetre away from John's mere moments ago.

John hurriedly left the room, leaving Sherlock alone with his phone and his thoughts. He stood frozen in place for a moment while his mind attempted to process the influx of data it had just received, and failing miserably in doing so. Frustrated, he turned on his heel and disappeared into his room, not caring what state John was in as he sat in the armchair where Sherlock had slept the night before.

It would take several days for Sherlock to sort out his thoughts, and when he did, he decided that the best course of action would not be to confront John up front about whatever it was that had happened between them. Instead, he wouldn't mention it at all. He would give John a chance to bring it up, and if it was of any importance to him Sherlock knew he would. They walked on eggshells around each other for several days, and Sherlock began to wonder what that was supposed to mean. He prided himself on the ability to read people, but he found that now, even when he read John like a book there always seemed to be some pages missing.

Ultimately deciding that John would never be the one to initiate the conversation they so desperately needed to have without any sort of incentive, Sherlock found himself dressing up for the first time in weeks. John was just sitting in his armchair trying to find a television program to watch, but Sherlock still found him very difficult to approach. He busied himself with fixing the sleeve of his shirt while he asked the question, and fought hard to keep the joy he felt upon hearing John's answer from showing on his face. He still failed, but he didn't care. He was going out with John. John had agreed to go out with him.

They soon left the flat and within no time Sherlock was sat across from John at an Italian restaurant, silently and patiently waiting for John to say something, anything, about their near-kiss in the kitchen. Surely if John wanted to say something he would have by now, and yet his mouth remained closed, except to ask Sherlock why he was staring at him. Honestly, Sherlock found his question to be quite foolish, because what else would he look at when he's out to lunch with a handsome doctor? Of course, he didn't say this, sticking with his resolve to let John be the one to bring up anything between them that might not be considered 'platonic'.

Sherlock noted the way John's face pinkened when the flirty waitress assumed they were a couple, and catalogued his response for evaluation at a later date. Sherlock took his eyes off of John's face for a moment to collect his thoughts, wondering what it would take for John to say something. He tried to ignore the dull pain in his abdomen when the thought crossed his mind that John wasn't going to say anything. That it hadn't meant as much to him as it had to Sherlock. That it hadn't mean _anything_ to him. He looked back to John, who was staring at him with a concerned look on his face. Sherlock noted that it was only concern showing, and nothing else. He could already begin to feel his heart shatter, and he hated himself for getting his hopes up. Suddenly he didn't have much of an appetite anymore, though he hadn't really had much of one to begin with.

He watched John as he ate, trying not to let any pain show on his face. He noticed John's empty water glass, and wondered what that meant. Dry mouth. Was that a sign of nervousness? What was John nervous about? Was he nervous about bringing up a sensitive subject like almost kissing your flat mate? Was he going to do it despite his trepidation?

Sherlock's phone rang, and for some reason Sherlock found that he had lost the will to fight against Lestrade. The case was simple from the information he'd been given, and if John came with him he knew he'd solve it in no time. After a weak attempt at a denial, a reluctant acceptance, and a timid request for John to join him, Sherlock found himself back on a crime scene for the first time in weeks. He had to admit, he missed it. As he suspected, the case was basically transparent, and he had solved it in no time. John had remained in the background as he usually did, save for one moment when he and Lestrade shared a few words and it was all Sherlock was aware of.

They returned to the flat and John began rifling through the contents of the fridge. Sherlock attempted to start some sort of conversation by making a joke, but John had only laughed and the silence was continued. Sherlock sat on the sofa and waited for John to enter the room, still holding on to some small shred of hope that the day's events had sparked some sort of desire for John to talk. Instead, he brought out his laptop and began typing away on his blog, and Sherlock couldn't keep his frustration hidden. He sighed, hoping for John to talk to him, to make some sort of indication that it was alright for them to talk, but all he got was an aggravated pounding on the coffee table and a few harsh words from John.

Sherlock rose from his seat and stormed out of the room, not bothering to look back, not caring that he'd upset John. He stayed in his room for the remainder of the evening, and as Sherlock settled into bed that night a dismal thought crossed his mind: John never brought up the almost kiss. That just meant he didn't care about it enough to want to talk about it. He'd had plenty of opportunities, but never took one. The almost-kiss had not affected him nearly as much as it had Sherlock, if it had affected him at all. This thought actually broke Sherlock's heart. He could feel the organ cease its rhythmic beating as he lay paralyzed in his bed, staring up at the ceiling. He could feel the life slowly draining out of him as the realization hit him that John did not and would never love him back. He ran his hands over his face in an unsuccessful attempt to wipe these depressing thoughts from his mind and sighed. Sherlock was certainly lovesick, and he feared this case was terminal.

First of all let me say how terribly sorry I am for not updating. My life hasn't exactly been very sedate as of lately, and high stress levels do not make for good writing. However, I've had a few days off of school recently and after working like a mad woman to finish some assignments early, I found time to write! I have no beta so all mistakes are my own, sorry if you caught any. Thanks for reading, and sorry again!


End file.
